


Treasured

by Blue_GhostGhost (Delphyne)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Dragons, M/M, Original Slash, Possessive Behavior, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphyne/pseuds/Blue_GhostGhost
Summary: An ancient and terrible dragon slumbers in the form of an old man working at the corner liquor store. Owen wakes him up.





	1. Chapter 1

**_The body becomes, eventually, like a vest of chain mail in peaceful years, too hot in summer and too cold in winter_ **

**—Rumi**

* * *

 

"Um, and can I get a pack of the lucky strikes?" the young man says dropping a Red Bull and a handful of power bars on the counter of the dingy liquor store where I am employed.

"Very well," I reply, putting down my New York Times cross word puzzle and slowly turning to the cigarette selection directly behind me. I move with the creeping achy joint shuffle of a cold-blooded creature.

Once I sat in hall on a thrown like a God. No. God's only dreamed of the kind of power I had. Such dominance, such stupid arrogance and for all its splendor as meaningless now as selling little paper lotto tickets. I would get angry about it, but I do not have the energy.

I hear the boy sigh and inwardly frown at his impatience. I would like to see how agile his body is when he's polishing off his second millennium. The young, it seems more and more, have so much contempt for the old. Children used to respect their elders. When did that change?

"Is that all?" I ask, while I hunt out the correct brand. That is another thing I do not understand. Is it not just tobacco wrapped in paper? Why must it have so many different names? So many crazy colors. So much convoluted advertising hocking virtually the same thing.

"Yeah, dinner, caffeine and smokes. Wild Friday night cramming for finals. They're in the far left corner on the bottom," he points out.

"Oh yes, so they are," I agree, reaching out tentatively with gnarled fingers. How strange these hands look. It is like operating the parts of a puppet—one that has tree branches for hands. Nothing works right when the weather turns this cool. My joints lock up. "So you are a student at the University?" I ask. I don't really care and besides it is clear that he is, but people seem better able to wait out my ringing up their purchases if I talk to them at the same time.

"Uh-huh," he says pulling out his wallet in anticipation of the total.

"That will be eleven eighty-six," I inform him. "Would you like a bag?" I look up slowly into his face for the first time and my breath catches. I let it back out in a slow hiss as I take in his pale heart-shaped face, bruised fruit mouth, and mop of dark hair—dyed with shots of blue.

I am not above occasionally admiring the pretty ones when they come into the store—with their flawless young skin and lovely bones, but it is the eyes that have my attention now. The best secrets of the universe are hidden in places such as this. They are so very very green, like twin emeralds looking back at me.

Like treasure. I used to have such a treasure a very long long time ago, the kind to partake of at your leisure. I remember the smell of warm nights in the orange groves, those dark globes heavy with juice and the clean sweet taste of well water from a ceramic jug, honey and pistachios on the tongue as I rolled such a slim little body beneath me and took from it what I wanted again and again late into the night.

Before it was stolen from me—my treasure—taken. I feel an ache in my heart like the hot heat of a sword, a splitting terrifying pain. I raged then. Oh yes, how I raged. Cracking bones and letting the flames roll down until there was nothing left, no palace, no women, no precious stones or metal. I went on like madness itself, until I no longer had a body as strong as a mountain and the cruel fingers of time had finished reducing me to this.

"I need to see your ID," I say softly, not meeting his eyes, "for the cigarettes." My memory shimmers like some mysterious gauzy substance that comes and goes with the change of the light. I blink my glassy old man eyes and try not to think too hard about whatever is trying to rear its head in my subconscious.

Remembering can be a kind of vertigo, a timeless falling into the abyss. It is better to stay with the now. That is the funny thing, the more I remember about the past the more I forget the particulars of the moment.

Maybe I will sleep and dream about it later, but for now I must stay here. If I let go, I will inevitably awaken in the homeless shelter again, months or ever years later, and then there is only suffering. I avoid suffering whenever possible.

"Oh, all right," he says, removing his California drivers license and handing it to me. Owen Byrne. He is nineteen years old.

So young.

So pretty.

I want to keep the picture, but then I remember that I have to give it back and my heart sinks. I slide it towards him as my fingers twitch to pocket it. My tongue darts out and passes lizard-like over dry and cracking lips.

"What's another word for a mournful or plaintive poem or lament?" I ask, my rough skin accidently brushing across his fingers as I take the twenty dollar bill from him to make change. The touch causes me to shiver. I cannot remember the last time I touched another or was touched. It could have been years ago.

"What?" Owen looks confused.

"For the puzzle," I explain, gesturing to my paper, "fourteen down."

"Oh." He smiles then and his eyes sparkle exquisitely. I long to own something as beautiful as that. "How many letters?"

"Yes, of course, yes, you would need to know that wouldn't you?" I check and he waits. "Five," I say, "I believe it ends in the letter 'y' if that is helpful."

"Yeah, okay." He considers for a moment, biting into the flesh of his full bottom lip. I want to be the one doing that. I would bite hard. I imagine the coppery taste of his blood and what kind of sound he would make at the pain. I shiver again. Owen, Owen, Owen.

"Try elegy," he tells me as he puts his purchases into the satchel slung over his shoulder. He never did tell me if he wanted a bag.

"You are a prince!" I exclaim. So clever. I like that and then I am transfixed by the shimmer of his nose stud as he moves his head. It has a dark sapphire jewel in it, but it is not a real one. The color matches the dye in his hair, though. I lick my lips again.

"Have a nice night." Owen tells me and gives a little wave as I watch him leave with interest. Pretty, pretty, pretty…when I was younger, oh yes, how I would have made that mine in an instant.

###

I live in a run down hotel room by the freeway. It smells vaguely of cat piss, but mostly when I turn the heaters on. Tonight I hum a forgotten tune, in a better mood than usual, as I open the package of noodles I brought home from work. They are the kind that come in the plastic bag with the metallic pouch of powdered broth.

I go about the steps to prepare them in the small electric kettle by the sink. In life, I fear cold and hunger the most and the majority of my energies go towards keeping both at bay.

I think of Owen while I slurp my soup. He reminds me of something I cannot quite remember, but it feels important. Maybe I just liked talking to him, liked looking at his attractive features and the sound of his voice, but something inside me screams that this is not the answer. That there is more to the puzzle.

Owen Byrne. I say the name like a prayer and when I sleep I dream about horrible things: snakes, rats and beetles eating away at my flesh. I dream of the stink of death and the heavy metallic blood smell of war. I thrash and call out, until the boy with blue sapphires in his hair and emerald eyes rimmed in kohl, comes and wraps his cool limbs around me to make it stop.

"Shh," he says. "Sleep. You will destroy everything if you wake, so sleep."

###

"Are you perhaps a troll?" inquires the crow at the bus stop, causing my fingers to hesitate with the next chunk of cheese sandwich I intended to share with it.

"No," I say my voice laced with annoyance. "I am not."

"Well, you certainly look like one," it feels the need to point out to me. This is why I do not make a habit of talking with fowl. They gossip too much and all have birdbrains to boot.

"Fuck off," I growl.

It cocks its head inquisitively. "There is no reason to get snippy. It was merely an observation. What is your name?"

I shrug. "I don't remember," I admit. Truthfully, I cannot recall the last time I used it.

"Well, you're turning to stone like a troll, in any case," the bird informs me flatly. "You'd better find your name or some other tie to the living before you go all stiff. You won't be able to get up off that bench one of these days."

"Thank you for your concern," I reply chucking my offering at the creature's head and then frowning in disappointment when it catches the morsel in its snapping jaws. "But I think you should mind your own business. My age passed a very long time ago and I have no intention of anything but a very quiet existence. Surely the matters of the world are for the young now."

"You could be young," it suggests slyly. "After winter comes spring you know."

###

The skin of the pomegranate cracks so easily, pouring forth its ruby-like drops of blood in response to the injury as I open it over the sink. I suck the seeds, crushing them with my teeth—methodically plucking each from its fleshy cavity until my fingertips turn red and my mouth tickles with the sweetish-sour flavor. It is a practice that usually calms my nerves, something so familiar it eases me into an empty frame of mind.

Today, however, my efforts have no such reward. My sleep has been troubled, my heart agitated. I think dark and lonely thoughts, spiked with old memories that haven't been stirred up in ages.

It draws small creepy crawly things to me. The walls fill with mice and the floor becomes littered with beetles and cockroaches.

"Stupid," I mutter to myself, crushing those poor unfortunates underfoot. "You are a stupid old man and nothing more. Your time has passed." The crow was right. I might as well be a troll, too toothless to feast on man-flesh anymore. Only pride would make me claim to be anything different, to demand a grander position.

If once I carried a shield and sword, if I split limbs from the bodies of my enemies and painted the ground sticky and red, who would care about that now? I look down at my fingers like tree roots, tinged pink at the tips. Horrible like snakes. I let out a miserable howl, frightened by my ugliness, and my own relentless decay.

"Holy hell!" I shout at my discolored ceiling. "I cannot bare this eternity of damnation. Would that I died in battle. Would that I was as faded and scattered as the songs they used to sing about my wrath." My face flairs hot in shame at my own cowardice, but it is the truth. I cannot face this existence. "I played my part," I whine, "my role is finished, let it be over already. Let the serpent's head be cut off. Let me be burned on the pyre and buried for fuck's sake. I grow bored of my own pitiful company."

My yelling makes all the little animals gathering around me rustle about, scratching and squeaking. I am exceptionally self-conscious. Something is starting here and I do not like it. Unbearable is what it is.

"To hell with the lot of you," I yell as I flee my room and go for a walk in the butter yellow light of evening. My hands are in my pockets, my gait shuffling and slow as I pick my way up the sidewalk and off the main street into a neighborhood of neatly arranged houses, each with a little square patch of grass in front. Strange these modern customs.

The people have put out pumpkins, onto which they have carved monster faces. They are crude, an act of a peasant warding off spirits. It makes me laugh and the sound seems dry and hollow to my ears, like the way the wind sounds moving through the autumn leaves. The air smells like wood smoke and cooking meat. It makes my stomach rumble in complaint. I grit my teeth and resist the urge to kick at the orange gourd faces watching me.

I do not remember the last time I felt so angry. It is strange, like visiting a place you have not been since childhood. I blink in the fading light and try to sort out the source of my sudden hostility.

"Hey, hey, hey," the crow calls down to me from a tree, "it's you again. I know you."

"What? Following me now?" I ask in annoyance. "I thought I told you to get lost."

The crow gives me a sideways look, "I know where there is a dead cat. Do you want to split it?"

"No," I say frowning darkly, "that's disgusting."

"Oh and you're so lovely to behold," he retorts sarcastically. "I thought you might like to suck the bones. It's your loss. Hey, hey, I know what you are now," it adds, "and it's not a troll."

"Yes, I am too a troll," I say dismissively. "I just forgot. They called me Ghul of the waste. I remember now."

"You're a very bad liar," it points out.

"And you are a Birdbrain," I snap in retaliation, "and I'm really tired of talking to you. Why don't you go choke on your cat?"

"You're just cranky because you've lost your treasure and your name," it states knowledgeably, "and with it most of your power."

"You do not know what the hell you are talking about," I hiss as the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Since when do birds know more about my business than I do?

"I know that a few rounds with the right mate and you'd be a lot more pretty to look at."

I snarl, turning my back to the stupid creature's incessant chatter. But I cannot fully resist the ideas it stirs. "And then what do you propose? What army is there to defeat? What foe would I focus my newfound rage on? My battles ended a long long time ago, Birdbrain."

"Call me names if you wish, but there is a new war coming," it croaks behind me and I still my slow advance to listen. "You could start a new clan. You could take this city as your own. Then you could have whatever you want: houses, clothes, drink, cars, women…"

"Now you're just stirring up shit," I observe, "and I don't want those things. I am too old for that kind of nonsense."

"You need treasure. I will find you a nice treasure and then you will find your appetite again."

I snort and shake my head. "You would open the gates to hell, simply because you can. What's gotten into your craw anyway? I know for a fact that your people don't do favors out of the kindness of their hearts." The bird makes a noise that is a mix between a wheeze and a sort of clicking laughter.

"I will fly over your right shoulder and have my fill of carrion," it informs me. "You will flatten and scorch my enemies. You will give me many many shiny things. You will give me the eyes of the dead and in return I will find you your treasure and never let anyone take it from you again."

I think of beautiful Owen and shiver. I know suddenly what he is, and what I could be with him at my side.

A jewel of indescribable power. Like the old days, again.

The thought both excites and sickens me. He is only a child, living in a world where monsters have been eradicated along side gods and disease. I was a wicked thing once, but this time I have a choice.

###

The boy's expression turns confused as he comes down the stairs of his apartment complex. He's wearing a University sweatshirt and scarf, a cigarette already on his lips.

"You're the guy from the corner store right?" he says with a frown as he cups his hand over his face and lights up. "What are you doing standing out here in the cold?" I watch a trail of smoke escape from his lips.

"Owen," I say, and then watch him recoil at a stranger using his name and an ugly one at that. "I'm sorry," I explain, "your name was on your ID."

"Okay," he says slowly, tiny creases forming between his eyebrows, "but what are you doing out here?"

"I wanted…" I pause and study him. Sometimes we are tempted to do things simply because they are possible. Sometimes they are horrible things. It is, for example, my understanding that during World War II it was not necessary to employ the atom bomb to defeat the Japanese. But once possible, that great atom splitting behemoth was always going to be unleashed. It is the nature of things—especially monsters. "I wanted to ask you what you know about slaying dragons?"

"Dragons?" he asks and there is laughter in his voice. He take another drag of his cigarette. His mouth smokes like he has hot fire in his belly.

"Or monsters in general. We do not have to start so specific, I suppose."

"Oh." Owen blinks at me. It is cold enough for his breath to mix with the cigarette's in white puffs that linger in the air. His cheeks are slowly flushing. "You realize you sound insane right?"

"Yes, I suppose I do," I agree. I put my hands in my pockets and look at my feet.

"But the real question here, man, is sure you know my name from my ID…but did you remember my address from that too? 'Cause that's where the real creep factor kicks in…"

I look up and my eyes widen as my brain considers this suggestions. "I…suppose it's possible," I say. "I don't recall."

"So that's a big stalker yes?" He does not look excessively frightened by this conclusion, but then I am not excessively frightening.

"Owen." I want to drop to my knees: to weep, beg, crawl, but I stay standing. "I am worse than worms. I wish I were dead, but I am not. I am terrible, terrible, I know, but…but…I still have to feel things." The tears slide hot, cooling on my chin and dripping off as a nasty choking sound emits from my throat. My fingers ball and grip in my pockets. "Have mercy and end my suffering. You are the only one who can."


	2. Dragon's Blood and Ruby Fruit

**_We're more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can't give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They're all blood, you see_.**

**—the player, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead**

"Whoa there, man. There's no reason to freak out now," Owen says. He comes closer and examines me, like there might be the answers to my madness somewhere on my person. "Is there someone I can call for you? It's really too cold to be standing out here like this."

I shake my head. "There is only you," I whisper.

"Shit." He hesitates, frowns, and then drops his cigarette, stamping it out under his shoe. Owen takes my arm, the warmth of his hand seeping through the worn thin fabric of my coat. "Okay come on."

I flinch as he begins to guide me down towards the sidewalk. "No wait, please…" To my great shame I can feel more tears coming, gathering behind my eyes and creating a burning pressure.

"Relax," he soothes. "There's a coffee shop down the street. I'll buy you a cup okay? But then you've got to go home. I have a shit ton of homework to do and besides this is a little weird."

"Okay," I say, letting him guide me.

###

"Do you believe in monsters?" I ask. Owen slides a cup of dark tea across the table and I wrap my hands around it, waiting for the heat to ease some of the stiffness in my fingers.

"Only the kind that come in human form," he tells me. "Not to be rude, but is there, like, a medication you should be taking or something? My roommate is a psychology major and she'd be all over the shit that's coming out of your mouth right now."

I look down at the table. So very stupid of me to be here, talking like this. The smell of tea is strong and spicy like a perfume. It reminds me of another time and place. "My problems are a little beyond the scope of modern medicine, I fear."

"Right," he nods, "dragon slaying was it?"

"Yes," a weak smile manages to form on my lips. "It occurred to me you would show some promise in the profession. You probably have them in your ancestry. But I suppose you are woefully ignorant on the matter?"

"Mmm," he says, but he doesn't laugh at me as I might have expected. "I liked them  _a lot_ as a kid, but outside what I remember from Tolkien, I'm afraid so. My life consists of earth science and chemistry. Not a lot of giant lizards running about you know? Well maybe in a fossilized kinda way, actually, but those guys don't really need much killing. They're pretty dead already."

"I see." I say. "What is this earth Science?"

"Oh well it's a pretty broad look at how stuff works. You know, geology, physics, chemistry, oceanography, and the atmosphere and how it all works together." He takes a breath, his eyes bright with excitement. "I'm still taking mostly general required undergraduate courses, but I think I'm going to major in either geology or geophysics. I like the puzzle of why things happen and in what order—the way the earth moves. And things like magnetism and mountain formation are fascinating."

"You like to think about time then?"

"Yeah I do, in the most massive and expansive meaning of the term."

"Well that is what time really is," I say. "It is the mind that is limited, not the concept of eternity. Eternity is always waiting behind our silly little constructions of reality."

He stares at me, takes a slow sip of his hot chocolate and then nods. "It's damn near impossible to imagine isn't it? You can know how long it takes to build a mountain, you can know that stuff data wise, you can see all the evidence, but actually imagining that kind of time…imagining what that's like." He shrugs and gives a little hopeless wave.

"The mountain has trouble remembering too."

He laughs. It is a very pretty thing to watch. "Yeah? You think it forgets all about its life as a sea floor?"

"Maybe it dreams about whales," I concede. "But most of the time it doesn't remember why. That is what it means to be ancient: to dream of the future and the past and no longer know the difference."

Owen plays with the fringe of his scarf for a moment, tracing the lines where the colors meet. 

"That's a very pretty way of putting it. You started out kind of sketchy, but this isn't so bad. I like talking like this. You know," he says, "you never told me your name."

"No. That's true," I say cautiously. My name is the slippery fish I've become too weak to grasp. I sigh in despair.

"Well," he persists, "what should I call you?" His green eyes almost glow in the light of the café. Oh the things men have done for the attention of such eyes. And then like a well-baited hook that fetches it. I shiver with pleasure.

"Oh Owen," I say. "You are like a pearl diver plunging into murky depths to retrieve such a tiny perfect truth, like bringing me a piece of the moon itself. Lovely boy, my treasure. You can call me Aži Dahāka, but you need never be afraid when you say it. I mean you no harm. The rest of the world," I make a grand dismissive gesture. "I am not so sure. No, the rest of the world is probably fucked, but you, precious, never."

"Mmm," he raises a dark eyebrow at me, "do you speak to everyone that way?"

I feel shameful heat creep into my cheeks. "I am not as fond of everyone," I grumble at his rebuff. But why should I expect otherwise? I am an ugly thing that has crept into his life, something foul to be dispatched as soon as possible.

"Can I call you Azi for short?" he asks, his tone light.

"You can call me anything you like," I tell him. "Anything you call me is what I am. I see my destiny in your face."

He rolls his eyes. "Laying it on a little thick don't you think?"

"No," I scowl into my drink. "I am…damn it. I become very easily enamored by all this." I point in his direction and he gives a bit of a snort. "Don't laugh. It is a horrible thing to be old and addle brained. You are the young and dashing knight now, but a pretty face is fleeting."

"Mmm. I'm flattered, really," he drawls. "You going to be alright now, Azi?"

"Yes. I am feeling a bit less desperate I think. Thank you for the tea," I say feeling myself blush again. It's true though. I can't remember feeling this contented in a very long time.

"Good. I have get back to my schoolwork. How about I promise to come check on you at the store tomorrow?"

"Yes that would be very nice," I agree.

###

The store phone rings and I answer it gruffly in the affirmative. "Azi?" says the voice on the other end.

I feel a shivering tingle run down my spine. "Owen is that you?" My fingers twist the hem of my shirt.

"Yeah. Oh good, I hoped you'd be there. Look I'm on my way to class, but I wanted to tell you that I just got off the phone with my Aunt Annabelle. She's this crazy world traveler—kind of amazing—anyway she knows lots about our family history and stuff and guess what?"

He waits until I ask. "I can not possibly imagine," I say.

"No dragon slayers. Not a single one as far as she knows."

"Ah." I feel the corners of my mouth twitch and something warm pool in the pit of my stomach. "I must be losing my touch, then."

"Heh. I would never say something like that about you." His voice is sweetly teasing and I find myself licking my bottom lip. "Well, now you can stop obsessing about it in any case. I have to go. I'll come by to get some gum or something when I have a break, 'kay?"

###

When Owen comes later in the afternoon he brings sweet fleshed tangerines and cookies baked with earl grey and lavender. He tells me about plate tectonics, the way the earth shuffles and bends, folds in on itself and disappears or diligently forms a new island. He tells it with such rapt, honest enthusiasm that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a kind of humble wonder.

I fall asleep that night with the taste of lavender on my tongue and my dreams are as sweet as Florida citrus. The earth beneath me subverts, it shifts and rumbles. 

###

"You stupid bastard," Birdbrain barks at me while hopping in agitation across the counter. "I find you, I tell you all the wonderful things about you, I offer you  _everything_ and still you are here? Serving these useless men their useless crap when you could be their lord and master?"

I say nothing, just take a peanut butter cookie off its display stand and open the wrapper. I take a bite, slide the rest in the crow's direction and then go back to folding my paper the way I like it.

"Hi Azi," Owen says cheerfully as his entrance makes the little bell on the front door ring. It's raining out and his hair is covered with droplets of water. "God, it's freezing today. I brought you a tea. I sure hope you have a space heater back there. Whoa, crazy. Is that your pet?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." I scowl at Birdbrain who is greedily making the cookie vanish down his throat. "It was not my idea or desire, however. He imposes himself on me."

Owen hands over the paper cup of tea as the crow eyes him with interest, head cocked. "Maybe that's a good thing. You look better every time I see you. You need company, Azi. You should join a club or something. What about chess? Or um…bird watching?"

"Your little visits are all I need, dear treasure," I murmur. Owen comes into the store at least twice a week now. His reasons are a mystery and an exquisite torture to me. I know in part it is pity—it is hard to miss the look in his eyes—but I also suspect I wake in him the same outlandish possibilities he stirs in me.

He rolls his eyes. "I disagree and you're beyond weird, really truly. You're even starting to get to me. You know, I read today that in some eastern cultures they believed earthquakes were caused by dragons guarding their treasure? Like moving under the earth and stuff."

"Yes." I sip my tea, humming in pleasure, honey and lemon, how nice. "I have heard stories like that, but I do suspect in these modern times very few dragons would be so old fashioned. You might want to seek your dragons elsewhere. Not that I'm an expert on the subject."

"He's bringing you offerings, it's feeding your power," Birdbrain observes suddenly. "If you were at all clever you would take more, faster...and then…"

My eyes narrow. "Shut-up," I tell the crow. "Nobody cares about your opinion."

Owen laughs. "Really? What did he say?"

I wave away the question dismissively. "Nothing worth repeating, love. Ah now, speaking of stories, there is another legend that says drinking dragon's blood gives you some of its power, more specifically the ability to speak the language of birds. It is said the Norse hero Sigurd did just that after slaying Fafnir and thus was warned of a plot to kill him. My dear sweet Owen, should you ever consider giving up the study of rocks and going into this slaying business, might I suggest you  _never_ do this. You are sincerely missing nothing. Birds are idiots."

"What if someone is trying to kill me?" Owen asks in mock earnestness. "Seems pretty useful to me."

I snort. "It is a doubtful story. Probably perpetuated by the birds themselves, a bunch of featherheads, every one."

Birdbrain ruffles his wings and makes an offended and rude noise. "Useless miserable old fuck," he says. "I ought to peck your eyes out."

"I think he disagrees with you," Owen says and then laughs in that easy way of his. I try not to remind myself it is because he thinks I am a harmless madman and that the stakes seem low in our strange acquaintanceship.

###

"I've been thinking about what you said," Owen looks up at me. We are sitting in a small café together. I am reading a 1958 volume on the history of space travel purchased at a secondhand bookstore and Owen has been silently studying for the last forty-five minutes.

"Mmm?" I blink. "What I said when?"

"About the dragons blood. If you know what the bird is saying, doesn't that mean you've killed a dragon, or at least maimed it enough to, you know,  _drink its blood_ ."

I think how best to answer this for a moment. "Well…no. To the best of my knowledge I have not."

"Huh," he shrugs, looking somewhat disappointed. "I just thought maybe there was a story there. You know," he says frowning as he flips through my book. "They don't land a man on the moon until 1969. This thing is lacking some important information."

"It's interesting enough," I protest feebly.

"I'll find you something better," he says going back to his reader.


	3. Almost

" **He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." –Friedrich Nietzsche**

 

"Greg really wants to meet you," Owen tells me, casually one day at the store. He's peeling peanuts and tossing them to Birdbrain as he speaks.

 

I look up from my paper. "Hmm? Who is Greg, sweetness?"

 

"Haven't I mentioned him before? God, I feel like I can't say anything without talking about him. He's my boyfriend. I think you'll like him a lot."

 

I feel sick to my stomach, my fingers going stiff and claw-like. "Your what?" I grit out.

 

"He said boyfriend, dumbass. He's fucking someone who isn't you," Birdbrain points out helpfully. "Tell him I also like dog food. He should bring me dog food."

 

"Oh um…" Owen looks startled by my reaction, his face flushing to the tips of his ears. "Oh shit. I didn't realize you didn't know. Look, don't, like, freak out about it. I mean, it's not that big of a deal to most people my age you know? I was out all through high school with totally normal friends and dating and stuff."

 

I stand slowly, pressing my palms to the countertop. I try not to think too extensively about what some man, some  _ Greg _ , is doing with MY treasure. "Oh my dear boy, no no no. I have no prejudice against your preferences. It's just," I hesitate, stumbling over the words in my distress. 

 

"It's just that you are so very young and I have a great many doubts that this person, this Greg, is worthy of your attentions, Owen. You are, after all, extraordinary."

 

The tension drains from Owen's body and he laughs, suddenly happy again. "Oh trust me. We've been going out for almost a year and he's amazing, a big 'ol sweetheart. And he invents things. Greg is like this amazing mechanic, fix it, inventor guy. Even my  _ dad  _ likes him."

 

"I see," I say, my eyes narrowing. "I will maintain my reservations all the same I think."

 

Owen smiles and shakes his head. "Azi, you're adorable, but you don't have to be so protective, man. It's not like he's my first or something."

 

"That," I frown, feeling infinitely cranky, "does not make me feel any better." Things were easier when I could just level a village over these kinds of disappointments.

 

###

 

"Well he's almost your treasure," Birdbrain muses as he lands on the opposite side of the park bench. I shrug glumly and sip my tea. It is not from Owen and it does not taste as sweet no matter how much sugar I use. "You should just eat his lover and be done with it."

 

"I'm not going to harm some unfortunate young man because I want something that is impossible and really really stupid," I grumble darkly. Not that the thought hadn't crossed my mind, but the damned crow needs no encouragement. "I'm sure he is very fine if someone like my tr…Owen has chosen him."

 

"It's a waste is what it is. Useless rutting when there is a kingdom to be built. And honestly this noble martyr business does not become you. It's pathetic. Since when is a dragon pathetic?"

 

I smile sadly. "I think all things large and powerful are pitiable, Birdbrain. What great empire, loved hero, revered god has not been ransacked by time and old age in the end? There are a thousand different beginnings, but only one ending."

 

"CrawAk!" The bird makes an ugly frustrated noise. "Fine. Wallow. I am going to go find something nice to eat in the trash bins before you make me pull my feathers out. This—no,  _ you _ are maddening." And with that he flies away.

 

###

 

What is the point of enduring old age if it does not come with wisdom? So I seek that wisdom in quiet contemplation over the next few days. Gnōthi seauton—know thyself—is inscribed upon the temple at Delphi, a warning. In my youth the grounds housed a great oracle, one that made quick work of the powerful men that did not heed such advice. Whatever became of her, I wonder? Does she too wander the earth listlessly, her purpose long ago exhausted? We were enemies once, but if ever we crossed paths again, I would call her sister and beg forgiveness for the days I raped and pillaged past Thermopylae searching for her gold. I have spent so much time forgetting, but now I seek my true self again, venturing deep into those dark caverns in which I sleep.

 

Dragons by nature destroy and what they do not destroy they seek to possess, to make their own. They are jealous and secretive by nature, hoarding their vast acquisitions away from the grasp of others. If I have already begun to obsess, to think of Owen as something that is mine, it is because it is in my nature to do so.

 

Ah and here you see is the moment, the place in which I could indulge myself in moral relativism. If this is the thing the world made me, then who am I to fight it? Why shouldn't I have the lovely boy as my own? Why shouldn't I feast and rage and take? After all, at the core of my nature  _ that is what I do _ . I am a guarder of treasure and a cruncher of bones. And I can almost believe that, almost take up my role as villain in the tale without remorse.

 

But no.

 

It is like reading a book backwards. Here I stand at the end of it and it is too terrible and it is not nice and I have very little desire to start up with the whole damn business again. Leave Owen innocent and pretty and leave the world without dragons. And so that is what I vow to do.

 

###

 

"I know you're stressed out, but try to be nice," Owen instructs as we walk towards the restaurant. "If you act as non-verbal as you've been all afternoon Greg will probably shrug it off, but I will be super embarrassed. I said you were  _ awesome _ so if you could just try, I promise to, um, bribe you later or something, okay?"

 

I sigh. "I will try. For you. But I still think dinner is unwise. I have nothing to say to your Greg and therefore meeting him is pointless."

 

"Well that's too bad because you're gonna meet him anyway and you're gonna pretend to like it."

 

I wave my hands in defeat. "Very well. Let's get this awkward meal over with."

 

Owen gives me a sideways glance. "Don't be such a baby, Azi. It's good for you to get out and break your routines. It keeps the mind active."

 

"That is not necessarily a good thing," I point out. "You don't know what I think about when my mind is active, as you put it."

 

"Oh yeah? Like what?" he asks, incredulous.

 

"Horrible things," I say flatly without looking at him.

 

"Okay." Owen stops walking and stands in the middle of the sidewalk. "So tell me." His expression is open and yet so determinedly stubborn at the same time that I have to fight back the urge to lay kisses across his pouty mouth, his jawline, his freckled cheekbones.

 

"You know the story of the Garden of Eden, yes? How the serpent gets the woman to eat from the tree of knowledge?"

 

"Yeah, of course," he says with a roll of his eyes. "My parents are Catholics. I got the memo."

 

I smile sadly as I recite the words. " _ And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. _ You see, love, that's a dragon story too. You are so young and bright and curious. Please, do not ask me to show you that wicked fruit. The consequences are too great."

 

"Azi." He takes one step towards me, then another, until we are close enough that I can smell his good, tasty scent. Owen takes my hand in his, running a thumb across my knuckles. I shiver, tongue the corner of my dry mouth. My desire for him is worse than ever, so strong it manifests as a tight pain in my belly, making me sweat. "I'm a science nerd. I want to know everything there ever was to know just because it exists. I’m not afraid of knowing. You're really a piece of work, you know that?"

 

"Am I?" I ask hoarsely.

 

"Yeah, why didn't you ever tell me  _ you  _ were the dragon?" He smirks. "It makes perfect sense now that I think about it."

 

Of course my clever boy would have caught onto that. I feel my face heat and I have to look away. "I suppose I was embarrassed," I admit. "Being a hideous monster and all."

 

"Jesus, you are not a hideous monster, Azi! Don't say shit like that. In fact, I think you're cute."

 

I shift uncomfortably but cannot bring myself to pull away. "Ah, now, enough," I tell him. "Stop laying false praise on a silly old fool. Come now let's go meet your gentleman, then."

 

###

 

Greg is young but comes across as all man compared to Owen's more coltish demeanor. He wears faded blue jeans and a worn leather jacket, tan and ruggedly handsome with a days worth of facial hair and shoulder length brown curls the color of dark coffee.

 

"You must be Azi. It's so cool to finally meet you, man." His handshake is warm and callused, his eyes smiling.  _ I hate him so much. _ I could break his neck; it would be over in little more than a second. Surely my treasure would forgive me in half a century or so. I frown as he kisses Owen's cheek. "Hi babe, how was class?"

 

"Good," Owen leans into the hand placed causally on his shoulder. "Come on, Bear, let's get a table. I'm totally starving." Letting Owen talk me into this dinner proves that I have far less self-preservation than I previously thought.

 

They order pale, bitter beers and potato stuffed samosas. We pile our plates with jasmine rice and lamb curry, emerald green palak paneer and smoky tandoori chicken. "So Owen tells me you have been reading some books on cosmogony from the school library. That's, like, the origin of the universe right? Trippy, dude."

 

I blink. "Well I do find the idea of cosmic heat death rather comforting. It has a nice sense of finality to it."

 

Owen snorts and sneaks a sip off of Greg's beer when the waitress isn't looking. "No, but tell him what you said about science and mythology—like how they're sometimes the same thing."

 

"Ah yes. I was particularly moved by the work of the Greek philosopher Anaximander," I say. "He was an early adopter of science. He believed nature had rules and an order to it and that the universe was created by the separation of opposites from its primordial matter, dark from light, hot from cold, wet from dry. And it is back to this matter—this apeiron—all things must return in the end. He has this beautiful map of the celestial bodies as he saw them with the earth floating completely still in the center of a cylinder surrounded by fire. The sun is, in fact, our view of an earth shaped hole in that encasement. Ah, you smile but these ideas were revolutionary thoughts for their time."

 

"I'm sure," Owen agrees. "Who knows what we'll say about current theories of science in a thousand years? Go on Azi. What about the principle of sufficient reason?"

 

"Yes, he was the first to use this concept, that all things happen for a reason and no thing can be true unless there is sufficient reason why it should not be otherwise. This will become a founding principle of your scientific method no? But here lies the complication: is such a line of thinking really equipped to answer the  _ why _ of the origin of  _ everything _ ? The something from nothing? There has to be exceptions, or beings so outside the principles of modern science as to be better categorized as myth."

 

"Like dragons?" Owen offers cheerfully.

 

"And possibly those capable of slaying them," I point out.

 

"Forget it," Owen sticks his tongue out at me. "Not gonna happen sicko."

 

"Or religion?" Greg makes a face. "No thanks, pass. Dude, just because we don't understand the science behind something doesn't mean it's not there. Why can't we just say we don't know, but we really really hope to in the future? What's with the need for dogma?"

 

"I am not suggesting a systemized way of addressing such anomalies. I highly doubt most of them give a fuck if men recognize their presence or not," I reply coolly. "But I suppose there is a psychological element to it."

 

"How so?" Owen asks.

 

"You see, treasure, it is like the conversation we had earlier about the mountain remembering it's a sea floor. I think there is energy in memory. Like our dear Anaximander's apeiron, it is the elemental substance that feeds identity, and in names I guarantee there is power."

 

"Whoa. That is some way far out shit you are putting together right there." Greg takes a swig of his beer, looking contented and amused. I can see his hand stretching out under the table, resting comfortably somewhere around Owen's knee. I feel flair of rage I have to swallow back, my eyes watering at the effort.

 

"Yes I suppose it is, Greg," I say softly, chewing the inside of my cheek. "I suppose it is."

 

###

 

I rage. I do not go blind with it, but it makes my bones pop and ache and my skin feel too tight. I scratch at my flesh, whimpering and hissing to myself in the darkness of my tiny room. I  _ want _ him. He is mine, mine, mine. Almost, but not enough, never enough. There are still little beasties here and there, mice and the flutter of moth wings. I dig my nails into my palm, full of hate, making tight fists until all motion ceases and the only thing still breathing is me.

 

I wake in the night to the earth trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put up some fan art of this story up on my tumblr blueghostghost.tumblr.com I've also started posting Haunted City here, which is in the same verse as this one.


	4. Dragon sickness

"We Spaniards know a sickness of the heart that only gold can cure."

Hernando Cortez

 

"The old Master had come to a bad end. Bard had given him much gold for the help of the Lake-people, but being of the kind that easily catches such disease he fell under the dragon-sickness, and took most of the gold and fled with it, and died of starvation in the Waste, deserted by his companions."

The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

 

_###_

 

I become reacquainted with my wrath. It comes like a dark storm into my life and accumulates there like floodwaters. I brood. Birdbrain takes one look at me after my first terrible night of despair and sleeplessness—sunken eyes and the stench of death clinging to my person—and keeps his distance. He is a fair weather friend I suppose and I should not be surprised by his abandonment.

 _It is a strange thing_. I want to do harm and yet I do not want to do harm. I want Owen and yet I do not want to enact the horror of taking Owen, that tasty, terrible violation. I long for release…yet want to taste sweet fruit without bruising the vine, spilling the blood of the lamb, scorching the valley. What torturous contradictions are these! How can this lead anywhere but madness?

Oh mysterious universe, spare me. My belly burns with a painful fire, the little hairs on the inside of my nose are singed away in my efforts to contain it. My skin itches as if I molt, as if I have an old and grimy layer of self in need of disposal. I scratch and chew at my body, tearing at my scalp, rubbing raw red spots on the backs of my arms like an animal.

I go to the bay. I do not have an explanation except to say that is where I am drawn, as if by some deep and primitive instinct. I want to sink back into the salt of it, crawl on my belly like a eel and sleep in the cool slime beneath the waves. I seek something peaceful and grave-like, to lurk in eternal darkness.

The marina is on the other side of the freeway but there is a pedestrian footbridge to one side of the snarl ball of off ramps. The cool weather makes me sluggish and cold-blooded as I shuffle towards my destination and the cars hurl past below me. I reach the shoreline and keep walking, out and then out further until the frigid water is up to my knees biting at my calves like a little dog trying to defend its front yard. It is one of those days where the sky is ash grey, smoke grey, the grey of infinity and the water reflects the color so completely that the space between Treasure Island and Angel Island all but disappears into that expansive nothingness.

It suddenly occurs to me with perfect clarity that I could unravel everything that I have ever known because I can suddenly see in that nothingness the edges of everything—the whole picture of my reality. It is like so many frayed threads blowing in the wind. I would only need reach out and pull to accomplish this, to test out such a theory…And oh delicious the question! Would that only result in my own unstitching or is my singular autonomy only an arrogant illusion? Is it our great collective fabric laying before me and what exactly would happen to everyone else if I were to unhitch it—a child in play unraveling the family's heirloom rug.

The air stinks of fish and gasoline and my nose wrinkles in distaste.

In some sects of Buddhism practitioners meditate for long hours at a time. The body can grow sleepy or the mind inattentive. From time to time individuals can request that the master strike them across the shoulders with a _kyosaku_ —a flat wooden stick designed to reawaken one to the here and now of this world. And so that unpleasant stench is my kyosaku, the whack to my senses that brings me back to being very very cold and soon late to work if I do not turn back to the shore.

 

###

 

Owen stops by the store a few mornings later on his way to classes. "Hi Azi. Greg made cranberry pumpkin muffins. I brought you some…" He pauses and frowns at me behind the counter. "You don't look so good. Are you feeling sick?"

 _I haven't slept in four days._ "No," I snap far too harshly, clutching my aching head. "I'm fine."

He studies me in shocked silence for a long time. "Umm…"

"Now is a very bad time Owen. Go away."

"Huh what? Oh shit. You know what, I'm gonna call Greg."

"No Greg!" I snarl. "Go to class, Owen. This will pass. It is much better if you don't fuss."

He already has out that impossibly tiny phone of his, expression stubborn. "Stop yelling at me. I don't suppose you have insurance? We'll have to go down to the free clinic."

"The what? No, no no. I have to run the store. You have to go to class. This is not happening!" I tell him. I'm upset enough I throw a pack of hostess donuts in his general direction but he swats them aside before they can hit his face. 

"Hey whoa there!" He points an accusing finger in my direction. "Stop being such a jackass, dude. You're too old for this shit. No, not you Bear, Azi." He has the phone to his ear as he watches me try to contain my misery. "Yeah, um, Azi looks really sick. Do you think you could come give us a ride to the health clinic this morning? I don't really want to try to put him on the scooter. Yeah, you know the cross streets? Uh-huh. Great, I'll see you soon."

I've practically got my head down on the filthy counter as I press my forehead against my palms. "It's better if I don't recover you know," I say, my voice echoing off the linoleum. "I can't all together disappear, but this thing we're doing here, treasure, it's very very bad."

"What thing?" Owen asks softly. And then oh God, he's right there, running a hand across the top of my head, finger catching in my hair. I shiver, have to bite down on my tongue to suppress a moan. "Do you want me to call your boss?"

I glance up at him, barely lifting my head. "My what?" I ask in wonder.

"Your boss," he repeats. "Or do you usually call a co-worker? Like that funny guy with the mustache or something? What's his name?"

I pull back, a cold sickening wave of panic washing over me. "What?" I can feel my heart beating impossibly hard in my chest, like a prisoner slamming against the bars of a jail. "I don't know. I don't remember." The checks come. I cash them. I can recall the look of the paper in my hands, but beyond that it is like a terrible vertigo dropping off into a hazy nothingness. It is worse than death.

"Okay, well how long have you worked here?" he asks, voice surprisingly calm.

"I don't know," I sob, growing increasingly hysterical. "I don't know."

"Shhh, Azi, it's okay. Here come out from behind there." Owen reaches behind the desk and steers me around until I'm shuffling out into one of the aisles. Then, he tugs me against his body wrapping his arms around my shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay." What terrible new torture is this? The vibration of power between us is overwhelming. How can he not feel it? I bury my face in his hair and cry. "We'll figure it out together. There's gotta be, like, time cards or phone numbers or something around here. Come on, Azi, just keep it together for me a little longer."

 

###

 

I wake in a warm bed with fresh white sheets that smell like lemon and soap, the late afternoon light coming through a window. Owen is there. I can feel him before I find his familiar form moving across the room. "Treasure."

"Oh, you're up. Good. I was going to see if you wanted some tea and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich or something? Greg makes his own bread. I can use this rosemary olive loaf that's totally killer if you want. " He puts a cool palm on my forehead, giving my hair a few friendly pets. "How are you feeling?"

"Mmm." I blink. I feel fevered, hot lust licking at the corners of my consciousness, all the world focusing down to the young man before me. He feels it too. I can tell in the way his hand lingers on my skin, pupils blown wide and inky. "Where are we?" I ask.

"Oh, uh, you don't remember the car ride?" He chews his bottom lip. "You were kind of out of it I guess. I told them at the clinic that you were having memory problems and the nurse said it could be a form of panic attack. I mean, if it's a psychological thing it's going to fucking take more than a _ten-minute consultation_ to sort it out you know? God, with the state budget cuts, you kind of need to be an axe-wielding maniac before your can get any kind of attention. Dragon is apparently not good enough. I put you on the waitlist though, to at least try talking to someone."

I sit up slowly, piecing together blurry snippets of the last few hours. I recall a cold white clinic, the way I clung to Owen's arm, buried my face in his shoulder and wept. "Thank you," I whisper.

"I don't know if I was really able to do so much." Own frowns and fusses with the pillows, looking frustrated. " _Fuck Azi,_ I'm worried about you."

"Shh. Peace." I catch his hand and hold it still, run my thumb across the smooth skin of his fingers and shiver. My beautiful Owen. What miracle is this that such a creature would let something like me touch him. I want kiss the worry lines from his sweet face. "You do too much for me, my love. _But where are we?"_

"Oh! Sorry," Owen says. "Greg's house. It's in the hills behind the university."

I cringe. The gods of mercy have abandoned me. "This is not a good idea. I do not want to further burden you or…or your gentleman." In truth I am not entirely confident I will not shame myself by eating my Treasure's stupid Greg. I am convinced that that kind of behavior is unsavory and yet so much of this feels barely under my control. 

"Oh yeah, um, well." He pulls his hand away and runs it through his bangs. "It not a problem really. I was kind of freaking out and he offered. It's a big house. It used to belong to his grandparents. There is plenty of room for you to stay for a little while. Greg spends most of the time out in the garage with his projects anyway."

"Owen…"

"Well, damn it! What am I supposed to do?" he snaps at me. "You're sick and I'm scared and I can't just leave you on your own. It isn't right."

"Owen," I say patiently, because really it is so very hard to be unhappy under my Treasure's doting attention. "I have to work."

"No you don't. Not when you're like this."

"I do. I have a routine and it is essential that I keep it. It is absolutely vital. Breaking my daily rituals will only worsen my condition."

"Look Azi." Owen hesitates. "I took your keys while you were sleeping. It had the room number on the keychain…I saw the place that you've been staying." I feel burning embarrassment and look away from him. How inconceivable that a monster like me would one day find himself the recipient of such pity. I certainly had none to give others in my day. "You are not going back there."

 

###

 

"Owen said you like crossword puzzles. I had to run down to pick him up a pack of cigarettes so I got you this." I look up from my tea at the puzzle book Greg is holding in front of me. Being around Owen for such expansive amounts of time leaves me in a strange state—both energetic and disoriented. It is worse late at night when I know he is sleeping in this man's bed.

_And it has only been two days._

"Oh." I reach out slowly and take it. "You shouldn't have." I want to say something else, something about my desire to disembowel him and divine the terrible ending to these terrible circumstances from his spread entrails, but Owen is studying in the next room and he might hear me. I await our doom with a certain calm that comes from the belief that there is no longer anything I can do to prevent it. Greg has what is _mine_ and one day the thing growing within me will lash out and take it back. I am sad and yet resigned.

The house is big and full of impressive, well-made furniture, oriental rugs and books. The floral wallpaper, the drawer of patterned linens, the way pastoral paintings have been hung on the walls with care, all speak of this home's past occupants, the people that came before Greg with his bit of motor oil on one cheek and his dirty coveralls. He should look at odds in that kitchen, stirring a pot of mushroom risotto, baking bread, grilling eggplant and potatoes. For some reason he does not.

I am given the least difficult tasks in this strange domesticity, peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables, cutting mustard greens from the garden. Occasionally Owen takes me into town to run errands or Greg tries to engage in a conversation about science or politics, but mostly I am left alone to do as I please.

I read faded paperback novels, go on long walks in the rainy Berkeley hills and spend afternoons weeding the garden amongst the beetles and earthworms.

 

###

 

"Okay," Own says, sitting next to me on the couch, a notebook on his lap. Our arms brush and he leans into the touch a little. I want to groan, to push him into the cushions. I chew the inside of my cheek as a distraction. "It took a few hours but I finally got a hold of the lady that actually owns the store where you work."

I stare at him transfixed. "You what?" 

"I made a few phone calls and got a hold of the owner of the corner store—Erin Ris. Have you met her?"

I shake my head. "I don't…I don't think so…" 

"Well, it was, like, the most surreal conversation I've ever had in my life. She says you were there when she bought the place five years ago, so she doesn't know how long you've been working total, but you've always kept the same hours without fail, no substitutions."

"Have I met her before?" I sound hopeless. Owen takes my hand and squeezes it sympathetically.

"That's the thing. It wasn't very clear. I want to say I don't think so, but how does that even make any kind of sense? How could you have never met the manager and owner of the place you work? Like I said, very surreal."

"Maybe she's not human either?" I shrug. "I don't know Owen. I'm so tired."

"I know. Look, she said you can take off as much time you need—that if you want the job it's waiting but only when you're ready."

 

###

 

I am out on the patio, watching the fog lift from the Golden Gate Bridge when I hear the flutter of wings.

"I was wondering," I say. "When you would come find me."

"You look better. You have been letting him feed you."

I give a humorless laugh at that. "It is an irony that I have grown too weak to prevent my strength from returning. It flows through me without my consent. There is a certain poetry to it I think, that I terrorize even myself these days. You've come to watch then?"

"Yes. I've come to wait and see," Birdbrain tells me. "I do not think we have long now."

"No not long,” I agree. “There's cheese bread in the kitchen," I tell him. "Wait here and I'll go get you some."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the comments! I really appreciate you taking the time! My writer blog is blueghostghost.tumblr.com


	5. the storm

"The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man."

William Blake

 

###

 

"Why is there a big black bird in my living room?" Greg looks at Owen who is sitting on the floor trying to coax Birdbrain closer with the promise of peanuts. Greg's hands are clean, which probably means he is on his way to the workshop as opposed to recently returning from it. For the most part Greg's relationship with his bio-diesel engines seems stronger than the ones he has with most humans and Owen appears to have the singularly unique ability to draw him from his garage.

 

"Because he's fucking awesome!" Owen says. "Bear, Azi has domesticated him or something. I don't even know how he found you again, but it's so cool." 

 

Birdbrain cocks his head and examines Owen with a sideways glance. "He's so young and eager," the bird observes. "He will be so easy to train up to your liking. Pity he's not a virgin through."

 

I roll my eyes in disgust and give Greg a look of exasperation. "The Crow and I...we tolerate each other. Owen makes it sound a lot more pleasant than it actually is."

 

"To be fair, " Birdbrain says as he crushes a nut in his beak, "I am the only one that has your best interests in mind. Remember that when you freak out, lose control and kill us all." 

 

I glare at him. "That is quite enough. Keep talking like that and I'll kick you back outside."

 

"Crows are pretty smart right?" Greg asks looking amused by my outburst.

 

I say "no," just as Owen says, "totally," at the same time, making Greg chuckle.

 

"You guys want a beer?" He asks over his shoulder as he heads towards the kitchen. "Dinner should be ready in half an hour or so."

 

Greg brings us cold, dark beer and cumin roasted pumpkin seeds. I watch as he leans over, carding his fingers through inky hair black, kissing the back of Owen's neck in a way that makes the boy smile. They are a pretty pair, a knight and his squire, noble and sweet. I shiver with jealousy and desire.

 

###

 

"Owen's parents are coming here for Thanksgiving," Greg says, making me look up from my morning routine of tea and reading at the kitchen table. Owen is in class so it is just the two of us alone in the house.

 

"Oh?" I say watching him dry his hands on a dishtowel. The kitchen smells of baking bread and the applesauce he’s been canning. "That's a harvest holiday correct?"

 

"Uh yeah, I guess it is." I suspect I'm supposed to know this already, but Greg seems to take my ignorance in stride. "It's a big dinner.”

 

I nod. “Ah, with the turkey. Now I remember.”

 

He gives me a fond smile. “Yes with the turkey. Of course we'd love to have you as well. I mean, I assume you’ll still be here, but I wanted you to know you’re officially invited." He sighs and looks at me with an expression I've never seen before. It's unsettling to say the least.

 

“Thank you,” I say. “Is something wrong, Greg?”

 

He runs a hand through his hair, his expression turning more sheepish. "Not really. I mean, I've met his parents before, but I guess the official family holiday thing actually has me a kind of stressed out. I really care about Owen."

 

"He is very…special," I say slowly, licking my bottom lip, my fingers going claw-like in my lap.

 

"And we've been together for almost a year now and it's amazing.” A year he says. A year! A mere grain of sand in all the deserts of time. “But there's the age gap and the fact that I never went to college and he's so fucking smart'." Greg is blushing a little even through his tan as he speaks.

 

"You worry you are not worthy of Owen," I state flatly, my blood boiling. How stupid is this man to be saying these things to a monster like me? I wonder when he is dying at my hand one day, will he remember this moment and see it for the charade that it was?

 

"I—I guess so." Greg swears under his breath, running fingers through his hair. "I have to admit it's been nice having him here more, having both of you here, actually. This house is too big for a guy to live in alone. And I know he's just a kid and all but he's real mature and low drama and I'll be thirty-one in the spring and  _ Jesus _ , I'm just rambling."

 

"Yes a little," I agree. "It's alright. You’re not as bad as the bird."

 

"I'm thinking of asking Owen to move in Azi!" He blurts outs suddenly. "I know it's nice for him to be close to campus but…I don't know. Do you think I'm screwing this up?"

 

"Any attempt I make at rational judgment is not really going to help you I'm afraid," I tell him, standing up and putting the kettle on. I am surprised by the ease with which I move these days, no stiffness in my joints even with the morning chill. "But I like to see Owen happy. You make him happy I think," I say softly. Oh how you are the sorry bitch of circumstance, Greg, just like the rest of us. It's a shame, I suppose, to snuff out such a small patch of goodness in this world. And like any abomination I pity myself all the more for the burden of being the one to do it.

 

"Yeah me too," he says simply. It must be nice to be a handsome idiot who fixes things, to have enough good will to spare to take in strangers.

 

###

 

I hear them together that night. The soft moans and grunts of coupling, the rhythmic thump thump thump of a hard runt. It makes my belly tighten hot and flame-like, a molten rage that takes all of my effort to swallow down. It heats my skin, leaves me writhing and hungry in my bed as I imagine them like that, their beautiful, young bodies twisted together, the taste of sweat and skin. I envision the flex of Greg's muscular back, the rich blood color that washes over Owen's cheeks as he takes his pleasure, gives over his body to the most intimate of violations.

 

_ You are a stupid old man and nothing more. Your time has passed. _

 

I fist the sheets in my hands, roll back and forth in a fever. I want to take and ravage and possess. I want to destroy what has kept my treasure from me and the desire to destroy bleeds into more carnal urges until it is one want, thrumming in my head and infecting my dreams, my heart thudding in my chest. 

 

###

 

"Did you feel the earthquake this morning?" Owen asks around the toast he's shoved into his mouth while he packs his school bag. Greg shakes his head and pulls the bread out from between his lips.

 

"What?"

 

"The earthquake. Did you guys feel it? Wonder what the read is going to be, probably at least a 3.1 if it was the Hayward Fault."

 

"You are frighteningly cheerful about these kinds of things," Greg tells him.

 

"What can I say? Strike-slip seismic activity really gets me hot and bothered." He grins when Greg just makes a face. "Oh come on guys, oceanic transform boundaries? That is some sexy shit."

 

"Stop talking dirty in front of Azi and go to class," Greg mock orders, grabbing Owen by the backpack and shoving a couple of power bars in the front pocket.

 

"Whatever grumpy bear." He swings around and kisses the corner of Greg's mouth, then gives me a little wave goodbye before pulling on the helmet for his motorcycle and running out the door.

 

###

 

I go for a walk, wearing one of Greg's coats to keep out the bite in the air, gloves and a nit cap I am told belonged to his grandfather. I stay away for hours and I try not to think about anything. I let the grey of the sky become the grey of my mind. I want to be empty, to drain all of my passions from my body like blood. 

 

One afternoon when I get back to the house Owen is out on the front porch smoking. “Hey,” he says as I settle in the chair beside him. He’s wearing a puffy red coat and fingerless gloves, his cheeks flushed from the cold. 

 

“How was class, my love?” 

 

He takes another drag from his cigarette and gives me a smile warmer than any sunlight. “Good. It’s nice to see you up and about, Azi. You’re moving around a lot better.”

 

I take the cigarette from his fingers and put it to my lips, not much liking the takes of tobacco, but loving the lingering traces of Owen’s mouth. “Is Greg in his workshop?” I ask.

 

“Yeah. He’s totally abandoned us for some kind of transistor radio thingie he got at the flea market today. I said I’d cook tonight, so brace yourself.” 

 

I laugh. “Your gentleman is a good cook, I admit, but I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with something.” 

 

“Oh? You’re going to help me? Thank God.” His eyes dart out across the driveway towards the garage for a moment. “Um so Greg asked me to move in with him today, like, officially. You’ve never been there, but I still have a room at the dorms.” 

 

“Yes he mentioned that was his intention.” I passed back his cigarette, our fingertips brushing, making a little jolt of energy run down my arm. 

 

Owen looked mildly surprised, but also a little pleased. “Did he? I said yes. My mom’s going to probably freak out a little bit, but I’m happy here. I don’t want to party and shit like some kids my age. I like that Greg’s a grown up.” 

 

“A reasonable position,” I reply mildly. 

 

“Thank you,” he says, satisfied with his own reasoning. “Okay let’s go take on dinner.” 

 

###

 

Owen comes with the storm, the furies that blow hard and fast off the sea, pelting the roof with rain and rattling the windows. I lay awake in the darkness and listen to the raging howl whip through the trees, snapping branches and rocking the telephone poles.

 

Then Owen is there and that feels like another kind of fury altogether. He pushes the door open slowly, his form backlit by the hall light. "Azi?" He's got something in his hands. I can't tell what it is but he's holding it carefully, like it's a fragile, precious thing.

 

"Yes sweetness? What's wrong?" I sit up a bit, leaning on my elbows and squinting at him. The storm roars on against the building, putting me on edge.

 

"Your crow. He was tapping on the window. It's lucky I was up late working on a paper. He's soaked through so I wrapped him in a towel. I think he's sick."

 

"Ah," I say. "Bring him here and let me see." I flip on the side lamp as Owen sets Birdbrain on the bed.

 

"Oh dear, my beloved friend," I say lifting up a corner of the bath towel. "Are you dying?"

 

Birdbrain tries to snap at my fingers. "Fuck no," he squawks. "Half drowned maybe. That's a nice little temper tantrum you have going out there, asshole. You make the whole sky weep for your impotence now?"

 

"He's fine," I announce, scooping up the bird and depositing him on the floor. He makes a noise of protest, beating his wings vigorously but I ignore it. "We'll keep him in for the night and he'll be good as new."

 

"Uhh." Owen frowns, his nose ring glinting in the low light. It bothers me that it isn't a real sapphire. If I had my way Owen would drip in the finest jewels the world could offer, my treasure. I would weave them into his hair, loops them around his wrists and ankles, a gold band for each finger and toe. "Uh Azi?"

 

"Yes precious? Don't worry about Birdbrain. He'll be fine, I promise." Owen is hovering uncertainty over the bed. I take him in fully now: messy hair and bare feet, low slung sweatpants and a too big t-shirt that is probably Greg's. I am reminded suddenly of the old children's story in which the wolf sleeps in the grandparent's bed waiting for the child to get in.

 

"I feel weird…this weather is weird." Owen scrubs a hand over his face. "Are you sure everything is okay?"

 

"I guess that depends," I tell him, listening to the cacophony of rain persecute the shingles.

 

"Depends on what?"

 

"On how you feel about great, unstoppable destruction."

 

Owen blinks sleepily and yawns. "Like volcanoes?"

 

"Yes, like volcanoes." I lift the blankets and move over enough for Owen. "Get in the bed, treasure. It's cold."

 

He nods and comes without protest, lets me wrap a loose arm around his waist and pull him against me. I bury my nose in his hair and breathe in his scent. _ Yesss. _ Mine. Mine. Mine. Between the storm and being this close to Owen, my body thrums with power.

 

"Don't let me fall asleep," he murmurs. "I have to finish my paper." He rolls over and shoves me around until I have one arm under him and he's got his head on my chest. I listen to his steady breaths in the silence for a moment. "So Azi, we're not talking about volcanoes right?"

 

"Mmm." I can feel him warm and relaxed, against me. Everything I have ever wanted, right here in my arms. 

 

"Like, maybe this is something about dragons?" He looks up at me, his eyes like twin emeralds.

 

"You are so beautiful." I sigh. "More beautiful than diamonds, more beautiful than stars. Owen…" His fingers press against my lips as he rolls his eyes.

 

"You seriously say the weirdest stuff, Zee. Stop that and tell me more about being a dragon."

 

I pull his hand down and smile sheepishly. "I apologize." I kiss his wrist. "I get caught up in..." I make a vague gesture. "The nature of it all. I am a fool as you well know."

 

"You aren't. Not really. We like you a lot you know."

 

"So Greg has suggested."

 

"Yeah?" Owen sounds pleased. "Good. He can be a little cool around people sometimes."

 

"No." I shrug. "He seems to like me fine."

 

Owen snickers. "Yeah I know he likes you. I'm just glad you know it too. It's so weird right? That thing with your job, and then us all suddenly living here together. It's nice, just unexpected I guess. You’re so much better though."

 

"I am, thank you." I run a hand through his hair, let my thumb brush over the shell of his ear. Does he feel it too, this pull between us? He must.

 

"Azi,” he insists, “tell me something about being a dragon."

 

"Mmm.” I brush my lip across the top of his head. My perfect boy. “It used to be easy. I used to know my role in this world. The world used to have a place for dragons and it was a horrifically gorgeous existence." 

 

Birdbrain makes a disgusted noise from his vantage point on the floor and starts to groom his wings. I snort. "My sweet feathered friend disagrees."

 

"Nothing is given," Birdbrain says. "Everything is taken. You want a place in this world then take one dragon. Stop whining to your boyfriend about your own unwillingness to act."

 

"What did he say?" Owen asks, reading enough in my expression to know I am not pleased.

 

"Nothing worth repeating, precious. I was beautiful once. I think I miss the beauty most. Perhaps the intoxication of blood and bones second, but beauty...it made everything so much more bearable."

 

Owen shifts again, so that our legs tangle and his ear is pressed over my heart, one hand splayed across my stomach. "It's going to be okay," he whispers. "I just know it will. Don't worry. Everything is going to turn out fine."

I smile at the excruciating ache in my heart. “Oh Owen, I can’t imagine how it could be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that reviewed this. It keeps me writing! blueghostghost.tumblr.com is my writing blog, come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I have been on a fic hiatus, but I've been recently editing and writing some new things across the internet. I don't currently have this on an update schedule but we'll try to get there. Blueghostghost.tumblr.com There is another fic under my other pen Delphyne in the same verse but it has some non/con in the beginning and is a little darker than this one will be


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